


The Seventeenth

by Sunless_Garden



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mpreg, Omega John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunless_Garden/pseuds/Sunless_Garden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The seventeenth comes and goes. Sherlock misses John's monthly heat. So does John. Sherlock doesn't take it well at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John's monthly heat isn't too bad. He experiences the symptoms with precise regularity on the seventeenth of every month, nearly without fail since he returned home from Afghanistan. His cycle was completely inhibited during his tours, but extended use of a heat suppressant has negative long-term effects, including sterility. John was somewhat relieved that his cycle returned to normal in just two months after he switched from the heat suppressant medication to the more mild contraceptive: he still experienced heat symptoms, but without the chance of conception.

Even his heat symptoms aren't so bad. Some omegas are hit hard, able to do nothing but shut themselves away for the duration. Some go crazy with it, pouring out a pheromone that attracts any unattached alphas in a mile-wide radius. Some omegas become ridiculously suggestible, gullible.

All omegas experience some variety of the symptoms: increased libido, increased pheromone output, increased receptivity - but John is fortunate to experience these to a much milder degree than most. Still noticeable, of course: he knows the moment his heat begins, because his blood starts to warm, his skin starts to itch, and he wants to take all his clothes off and just rub against everything.

But John has self-control, and his monthly six to nine hours of heat on the seventeenth barely disturb his schedule. He rarely even needs to rest the next day, whereas most omegas are knocked off their feets for one to three days after. So John just accepts it as part of his nature: mildly annoying, but bearable. Even pleasurable, since he and Sherlock became intimate. Sherlock can sense the changes in John starting about the fifteenth, and he becomes pleasantly facilitative. He'll properly package and label his experiments, go to Tesco's to stock up on food, and actually play his violin - rather than torture it. If they are already on a case, Sherlock becomes rather protective. If Lestrade tries to call them in, Sherlock refuses to start any cases between the fifteenth and the eighteenth.

Sherlock doesn't say, but John knows he is concerned that John will be in the wrong place at the wrong time when the heat starts, which has the high probability of attracting unwanted attention. John can take care of himself, but it is . . . nice, sometimes, to see practical demonstrations of Sherlock's regard for him. Lord knows the alpha never says what he's feeling.

Which is why when the fifteenth comes and goes, and Sherlock's behavior has not altered in the least, John feels just a bit disappointed. He pushes the feeling away - Sherlock's been on a smuggling case since the end of last month, and his full attention is on gathering evidence against the criminals.

The sixteenth comes and goes. Sherlock emerges from his room in the morning disguised as a homeless person, and he is out the door without so much as a bite to eat or a goodbye to John. John just sighs, wondering if he will be spending this heat alone. Sherlock has a habit of... displacing his solitary heat aids in fits of pique, so John spends the afternoon gathering and sanitizing them.

The seventeenth . . . 

Nothing.

John is not concerned in the morning. He tends towards afternoon to evening heats. By 3pm, he's still not too worried - nothing incredibly unusual. He gets a little anxious as the afternoon progresses, and by 11 pm he is . . . 

Uncertain. Nervous. Can he go out tomorrow? He hasn't missed a heat since he switched off the suppression meds. It makes him feel... wrong, somehow. He's only 35 - he's not past heat age yet. Omegas normally stop experiencing heat in their early 50s. Sometimes extreme stress will make an omega skip a cycle, but John hasn't been unduly stressed as of late - and his system usually isn't that sensitive even if he is under heavy stress. The only other time an omega misses a heat is when . . . 

Oh.

_Oh shit._

*****

The next morning, John asks Mrs. Hudson to go to the store for the pregnancy test, just in case he's wrong and the heat is only off schedule. He really doesn't want to feel his blood to start warming in the middle of the street. The last time he had an accident like that was pre-Afghanistan, and John wound up breaking an alpha's arm before a beta constable escorted him home.

Mrs. Hudson looks at him knowingly, and gladly goes. John swears he can see a spring in her step - he wonders how long it will be before she starts bragging to Mrs. Turner. Mrs. Turner's married ones don't have a baby on the way. John sits down heavily at the thought that he likely has a baby on the way. Half-John and half-Sherlock.

Sherlock.

John wonders how he will feel about this. Sherlock isn't exactly father material - what with the dangerous experiments, and the dangerous career, and the dangerous . . . danger that seems to follow him around like an old friend. He keeps odd hours and tortures his violin at three in the morning and still craves cocaine when he's too long between cases. John does his best to get him to sleep, to eat, and to not offend anyone unduly. Now John will have to do that for two people, if he's truly pregnant - and Sherlock got jealous when John tried to keep a plant, for god's sake.

A baby takes up a lot more attention than a plant. A baby likely takes up a lot more attention than Sherlock, even.

A baby will change everything.

But the more John thinks about it - the more he wants it. A very good thing, considering the pregnancy tests Mrs. Hudson buys him all come back positive.

All six of them.

Yes, Mrs. Hudson may be just a tad excited about this baby business.

*****

Sherlock returns to Baker Street at 2:30 am on the nineteenth. John manages to get him to eat half a piece of toast before he practically collapses with exhaustion. John is just glad he actually makes it to his bed, this time - Sherlock gets cranky when he falls asleep on the sofa for an extended period. John helps a half-asleep Sherlock out of his clothes, leaving him in just his pants under the duvet before lying down beside him and texting Lestrade.

_Case over, I take it? J.W._

John smiles, because Sherlock insisted on setting his mobile to add his 'signature' to the end of every text automatically. John thinks that at least half the reason he did it is because it makes John think of Sherlock every time he texts.

_Yes. He got home okay?_

_Passed right out. J.W._

_Sorry about your 17th._

John smiles again. Lestrade is a beta, albeit a very confident and self-assured one. He's not affected by an omega's heat in quite the same way as an alpha, though he can still sense it. He also gets a bit flustered when anyone brings the topic up in conversation, so John has taken to referring to his heat as "his seventeenth."

_Don't worry about it. J.W._

Really, it would have been annoying but tolerable if he had to pass the heat by himself. John would put up with more than a little discomfort to get those smugglers off the streets.

*****

Sherlock is still asleep when John wakes up the next morning, so he heads to the kitchen to make some tea and breakfast. Then he settles down in the sitting room to type up their last case. Sherlock makes his way out sometime after noon - still in his dressing gown, of course. He flops down on the sofa immediately, and John brings him some food before sitting down again.

"It's the nineteenth, you know," John says, deciding to get this conversation out of the way quickly. He gave the pregnancy tests to Mrs. Hudson to dispose, so Sherlock wouldn't see them in the bin and deduce it himself.

Sherlock blinks, obviously shocked. He sits up immediately.

"No. No, that's not right," he argues. "I could swear it was the... the thirteenth? The fourteenth? Your scent hasn't changed yet."

"No," John replies. "It hasn't."

Sherlock frowns, getting up to move a few books around.

"You found the aids," he states, his expression disdainful.

"They do make things easier," John tells him. "But I didn't have to use them."

Sherlock's face pales dramatically.

"Did... did someone?" he trails off, before dashing up to John and examining him minutely. Then he goes back to his room, before heading up the stairs to look at John's. He flounces back down to the sitting room after a few minutes.

"You didn't have your heat," Sherlock announces, frowning. "Did you go back on your heat suppression medication? No. No, I would have seen you take them. Not to mention it tends to sour an omega's scent. You're still on the normal contraceptive. Stress can shift the cycle, but even during high-stress cases you have experienced your heat on precisely the seventeenth for as long as I have known you."

"That's true," John responds mildly.

Sherlock looks at him, a confused expression on his face that slowly, slowly shifts to understanding. He sits abruptly. Right on the floor. He doesn't even make it to his chair.

"You're pregnant," Sherlock states, sounding dazed - but certain.

"Yes," John answers, sighing and sitting next to him on the floor. Best to have this conversation on an even level. "I know it's a bit of a shock, but no contraceptive is 100% effective."

Sherlock doesn't respond. They sit there in silence for a few moments before he stands - just as abruptly as his sat - and practically sprints to his room. John can hear the lock slide closed behind him.

Well, it could have gone worse.

But it definitely could have gone better.

*****

John knocks on Sherlock's door a few hours later, but there is no answer. He frowns, because Sherlock really needs to eat something substantial. He goes to get the key from the cleaning supply box (the one place Sherlock almost never looks) and opens the door.

Sherlock isn't there.

John sighs, looking towards the open window. Of course Sherlock doesn't need doors to leave. John just wishes he would use them anyway. He closes and locks the window, so Sherlock will have to come back through the door like a normal person.

*****

Sherlock doesn't return for another three days, and John's patience is wearing thin. It is fine if Sherlock wants to have a bit of a panic - John just wants Sherlock to panic at Baker Street so they can actually talk about this. Sherlock returns the morning of the fourth day. John is reading the paper in his bath robe, fresh out of the shower and looking for something to do. Mrs. Hudson brought him a plate of biscuits, tutting over Sherlock's absence the entire time.

"Hello," John says, keeping his voice and expression mild with sheer strength of will. He wants to get up and shake the bloody bastard. Sherlock left his mobile at Baker Street, so John hasn't even been able to contact him. The only way he even knew Sherlock was still alive was because Mycroft contacted him at the end of the first day to congratulate him on the happy news and promise to have his people watch over Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn't answer his greeting, just stumbles over to kneel at the side of John's chair. He looks at John's abdomen, his hand tentatively reaching forward before lightly ghosting against John's robe.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbles, the words soft and hard to make out.

"What for?" John asks, not ready to let him off the hook quite so easily.

Sherlock looks up at him with guilty eyes, but doesn't answer.

"Why are you sorry?" John repeats. "For leaving without telling me? For forgetting your phone so I couldn't even ask if you were alright? For making me worry? Why?"

"All of those," Sherlock tells him. "I'm sorry for all of those. You're pregnant. Negative emotions can affect the development of the baby. I shouldn't have made you worried. Or angry. I'll do better."

John sighs, purposefully relaxing the tense muscles of his shoulders.

"Well, okay then," he says. "Would you like a biscuit? Mrs. Hudson made them - they're quite good."

Sherlock blinks at him, glancing over at the plate of biscuits before tentatively standing up. He still looks a bit lost, so John stands and pulls him into a hug. Sherlock grips back tightly, resting his head on top of John's. John just can't help himself:

"I sure hope it's yours," he whispers, trying to keep his voice as even and seriously as he can.

Sherlock's grip immediately tightens around him, and he grabs John's shoulders to push him back and look down into his eyes.

"That's not funny!" Sherlock tells him. "I do not appreciate your attempt at humor, John. I... you wouldn't... you didn't..."

John leans up and presses a soft kiss to Sherlock's lips.

"It's yours," he says firmly. "I certainly didn't have sex with anyone else during my last heat, now did I?"

A smug smirk tugs at the corners of Sherlock's lips at that statement.

"No," he agrees. "I was exceedingly thorough, and it was my sperm that impregnated you despite contraception. I must be extremely virile, even for an alpha."

John just snorts and leans his head against Sherlock's shoulder, pulling him back into another loose embrace.

"Yeah, yeah. You big, strong, virile alpha you," he murmurs ironically. "Just don't forget who has to actually carry your ridiculous crazy genius sprog."

"I won't, John," Sherlock replies, holding him close. "I won't."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is annoying John with his hovering. That doesn't mean John won't use it to his advantage.

John would really like to keep his pregnancy quiet for the first trimester, due to the risk of spontaneous miscarriage, but there is absolutely no chance of that happening. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson already know, of course, but they aren't the problem. Mrs. Hudson isn't that much of a gossip: she might brag to Mrs. Turner, but that's about it. Mycroft is by nature discreet.

Sherlock is the problem. He is entirely too smug and self-satisfied for his own good. He can't stop staring at John, tracking John's every movement with his eyes. Sherlock also can't stop touching John, especially in the presence of others: a possessive hand on the small of his back, light brushes under his jumper against the bare skin of his stomach, and a rain of kisses to his neck and jaw. John appreciates affection, especially from Sherlock, but not when its only purpose is to stake a claim. And Sherlock is very obviously staking his claiming, his body language and expressions practically screaming 'mine'. 

No matter what Sherlock might think, Lestrade and the others at the Yard aren't unobservant. There is no way they will not notice Sherlock's hovering. Sherlock tells John not to worry about it. John just takes this as evidence that Sherlock wants people to know right away.

"He's acting unusual," Lestrade states plainly at the first crime scene Sherlock visits after John's big reveal. Lestrade's right, of course. Sherlock held the cab door open for John and helped him out, and then practically shepherded him towards the caution tape with a hand on John's back before leaving him right outside the room where the murder took place. Sherlock's usual behavior includes bounding out of the cab, leaving John behind, and dragging him practically on top of the body while demanding John's medical analysis of the corpse.

"Mmhmm," John hums noncommitally.

"John, is everything all right out here?" Sherlock asks, popping his head out of the room but making sure to keep the door in the way so John cannot see the body. Sherlock glares at Lestrade fiercely.

"Yes," John sighs. Sherlock nods, gives Lestrade another glare, and then pops back into the room. He closes the door firmly behind him.

"So, I'm guessing something must have happened," Lestrade says after a beat of awkward silence. "Did an alpha go after you during . . . during your seventeenth? Is that why Sherlock's so protective? I'll be more careful to send him home on time in the future."

John considers letting Lestrade believe Sherlock is upset about missing his heat, and possibly about another alpha attempting to touch John. But the pregnancy will have to be revealed eventually, and there's no need to worry Lestrade unnecessarily.

"I'm pregnant," John states plainly: no need to beat around the bush. Lestrade looks at him with wide eyes, his mouth falling open in shock. "Sherlock's a bit excited, but he'll calm down soon. Hopefully."

"So it is Sherlock's," Lestrades states, visibly relaxing. John shoots him a mild glare. Really, it is ridiculous the extent to which alphas and betas think omegas cannot control themselves. John decides not to dignify the comment with a response, instead changing the subject.

"I don't want to take an ad out or anything, but I know Sherlock's behavior is going to raise eyebrows," John admits. "Try to keep Donovan and Anderson off the trail a bit until Sherlock settles?"

Lestrade agrees easily.

"Sherlock, a dad," he whistles, sounding vaguely stupefied. "I don't even want to think what kind of child your genes will create together."

"Genetics doesn't work all that straightforward," John points out. "Sherlock is brilliant, and I wouldn't change him for the world. But part of me hopes that our child won't be quite as intelligent. I know it wasn't easy for Sherlock growing up, trying to find his place. I mean, I will support my child whole-heartedly even if he or she is smarter than Sherlock and Mycroft put together. I just - just want him or her to be happy."

Lestrade nods, his expression understanding. Then they hear Sherlock yelling at Anderson through the door: something about Anderson disturbing the evidence and needing to find a new profession. John sighs, pushing the door open and walking through. He's willing to humor Sherlock to a point, but he refuses to stand outside the door while Sherlock completely alienates everyone in the room.

"What did you observe?" John asks calmly, Lestrade at his heels. Sherlock immediately stops deriding Anderson, turning to John. It is almost comical how quickly his expression changes from annoyance to concern.

"Sherlock," John says firmly, cutting him off before he can say something to dig himself a deeper hole. "Did you observe anything? Why don't you tell Lestrade all about it, and then we can leave?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, and John loses most of his patience. Well, best to use his trump card now, rather than punch Sherlock in the face in front of a dozen witnesses, who also happen to be police officers.

"I'm hungry," John tells Sherlock. He's sure it only works because it is the truth: John can't lie to Sherlock for anything. Sherlock's eyes widen and his face falls just a bit. John imagines the alpha's instincts are screaming at him to take care of his pregnant mate. Sherlock lets his hand fall to John's back, gently steering him out of the room as he snaps his observations at Lestrade and the others.

"We'll go to Angelo's," Sherlock tells him as soon as they are on the street. He flags down a cab, and one immediately stops for him. John hopes that is one ability their child inherits, because John cannot flag down a cab for anything. They just drive right past him.

"What if I don't want Italian?" John asks, just to be difficult. He might be a bit pissy because Sherlock just held the cab door open for him and ushered him inside. John is pregnant, not an invalid. He isn't even showing yet, for god's sake: it has only been a month or so.

"You want Italian," Sherlock assures him. "You've been craving garlic bread all day. Not a pregnancy craving. It's too early. Though I admit I am looking forward to recording your cravings. Also, I feel bound to inform you that I know when you are attempting to manipulate me. It only works when I let it."

John thinks it just adds credence to his ability to manage Sherlock that Sherlock actually consents to his own manipulation. He wonders how much more he will get away with in the coming months.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months into his pregnancy, and John wonders how he will make it another six. The pregnancy isn't the problem: it's Sherlock. It's always Sherlock, isn't it?

_Crash._

John startles from his nap on the sofa.

_Bang._

He jumps to his feet and heads towards the kitchen, wondering what Sherlock is destroying now. Is he exploding the microwave? Letting acid eat through the table and floor? Co-opting the toaster as a weapon of mass (kitchen) destruction? Again?

John stops dead, because the fridge door is open, Sherlock is holding a large black garbage back in his hands, and he seems to be completely emptying the fridge - experiments and all. John runs a hand through his hair, relaxing a bit because at least nothing is exploding or acidifying or on fire.

This time.

John wants to ask what Sherlock thinks he is doing, but by this point in their relationship he knows better than to phrase his questions in such a way. If John isn't specific, Sherlock will just roll his eyes and give him the most obnoxious answer possible. In this case, something along the lines of: "I am disposing the contents of our fridge, John. Obviously."

'Why' questions are always more important than 'what' questions with Sherlock, anyway. Sometimes John wishes he was a telepath so he could read Sherlock's mind. Then he comes to his senses and frantically takes the wish back. He loves Sherlock, but he doesn't ever want to be in his head.

"Why are you throwing away all our food?" John asks. Sherlock tosses a carton of eggs into the bag, and John winces as he hears them crack. Well, no omelets for dinner tonight, then. He'll make Sherlock take him out: John feels like Indian. He thinks Sherlock did a favor for the owner of the Indian place down the street, anyway. Who can turn down free samosas?

"Mrs. Hudson directed me towards literature on proper gestational nutrition," Sherlock informs him, calmly dropping a container of eyeballs into the bag. John has to admit that he isn't upset to see them go: it is downright odd to have human eyeballs staring at him every time he opens the fridge. He almost thinks it would be better if they were attached to a head. Ah, and there go the fingernail clippings.

He makes a mental note to have a discussion with Mrs. Hudson about giving Sherlock reading material. She should know better than to show him anything not vetted by John first. Last time John got angry enough at Sherlock to give him the extended silent treatment and stay at Harry's for the night, Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a book titled something ridiculous like "Romancing Your Omega: 101 Ways to Show You Care." John came back to a flat covered in rose petals: literally covered. They were everywhere, and on the floor they stacked at least an inch deep. John doesn't even want to contemplate how much all the roses cost. Not to mention the clean-up took forever.

Though he has to admit it was oddly sweet.

For Sherlock, anyway.

"I'm pretty sure that proper nutrition involves actually eating, you know, food," John points out, maybe just a tad snidely. No one can blame him, though: Sherlock just tossed the pint of milk. John is going to have to go to Tesco's tonight, and he hates fighting with the chip and pin machine. Sherlock scowls, continuing to toss a mix of food and experiments into the garbage. When the fridge is completely empty, he moves to the cupboards.

"You need to eat healthy food," Sherlock tells him, throwing out the peanut butter. "Also, the nutritionist I hired was appalled when she saw the body parts. Decomposition can contaminate food."

"As I've told you a hundred times," John mutters to himself. He wonders how long this experiment-free kitchen will last. Maybe he can convince Sherlock to get a second fridge to hold his experiments in? "Wait - what nutritionist?"

"Oh, she visited this afternoon while you were at lunch with Harry," Sherlock says blithely. There goes the jam, the beans, and the mold cultures. John has been trying to get Sherlock to throw those out for two weeks now. Well, at least this disposing spree is good for something. "She created a meal plan appropriate to your situation. The groceries I ordered are due to be delivered within the next two hours."

" . . . this is you nesting, isn't it?" John breathes, slumping against the wall. "Are you going to be like this for the next six months? No, don't answer. I'll have to deck you."

"Don't be overdramatic, John. It doesn't suit you," Sherlock informs him calmly, tying off the garbage bag and dropping it out the window to the skip below. John sighs, because of course Sherlock can't take the garbage out like a normal person.

"Oh, I'm overdramatic," John mutters, walking towards the stairs. There's no way to stop Sherlock when he's in a mood, and apparently Sherlock is currently in a cleaning mood. Odd, but not anywhere near as dangerous as Sherlock in a blowing-shit-up mood. So John will just leave him to it and continue his nap in the upstairs bedroom, hopefully far enough away from Sherlock's racket that he will be able to get some more sleep before dinner. "Wake me up in an hour or so. I want Indian tonight."

Sherlock doesn't even look up from where he is now spraying the fridge with disinfectant. He just waves at John absentmindedly and starts scrubbing. Scrubbing.

Sherlock.

Cleaning mood.

Christ.

Well, at least it's better than shooting the walls. Or obsessively watching John's every movement. Sherlock got that into his head last week, and John couldn't even go to the loo without Sherlock following him. If Sherlock gets that bad again, John will just have to escape protective confinement and call the cavalry. Mycroft will make sure Sherlock stops hovering long enough for John to have some breathing room. He's smart enough to know that otherwise Sherlock will be joining the food and experiments in the skip - via the window, as well.

He's sure Mrs. Hudson will agree to be John's alibi, if it comes to that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months in. John is managing.

Six months in, and John is managing. The pregnancy itself is fine. He mostly dodged morning sickness, and if has an occasional strong craving for Indian food - well, Sherlock is good for something, at least. It's a bloody good thing too, because between John's hormones and Sherlock's protective instincts, sometimes John is a good two seconds away from popping Sherlock in the nose. _Especially_ when Sherlock hovers when John is in the bathroom, or cleans when John is trying to write in his blog (as in, cleans his laptop keyboard, because there might be germs, or attempts to move John so he can clean the chair _that John is sitting in_ ), or throws John's snacks away because they are "Unacceptable for the fetus." 

And then when John gets angry, Sherlock gets anxious, and tells him to calm down because "The fetus needs an appropriate environment for optimal growth, John." 

John will give Sherlock "an appropriate environment for optimal growth." But John is managing. He puts up with Sherlock's hovering, and his cleaning, and his obsession about what John is eating. Is it healthy? Is it enough? Is it too much? It probably helps that John's been perpetually horny ever since he hit his fourth month - and it is very easy for him to channel his angry frustration at Sherlock into horny frustration. And with that, at least, Sherlock has been most obliging. 

John probably should not be thinking about how obliging Sherlock and his knot have been while staring at beans in the middle of Tesco's. _Shit._ He looks at his cart, wondering how quickly he can get through the chip and pin machine and get back to 221b for a good mid-afternoon shag. 

"Do you need some help with that?" an unfamiliar voice asks from his side. John turns to look at the man as he approaches - he's an absolutely average alpha. Tall, but not too tall. Broad across the shoulders, but not really muscular. Mousy brown hair, and a forgettable face. The kind of alpha John wouldn't have glanced twice at before Sherlock. Now that he has Sherlock, John just glances the once to evaluate the threat level. (Negligible. John could have him on his stomach with his arms twisted behind his back in two seconds flat). 

So John ignores him. He's gotten used to strange alphas seeing his belly - the evidence of his fertility - and approaching. Flirting. Sometimes even when Sherlock is around. John finds it quite funny when Sherlock puffs up like an angry cat and then deduces them to tears. John's gotten mean in his pregnancy. John blames it on the hormones. Sherlock lets him blame a lot of the hormones, nowadays. The food cravings, the sex cravings. The not-spoken-about cravings for harlequin novels that make him want to cry. He resists. Of course. (Resist the crying, not the harlequin novels.)

"I _said_ , do you need help with that?" the alpha repeats, sounding pissy.

"I heard what you said," John answers, still looking at the beans. He sighs, and finally picks the kind he likes (the kind Sherlock says is "unacceptable.") He'll just have to find a place to hide them where Sherlock won't find them. Or at least, he will have to hide them in a place where Sherlock will find them, but know that John didn't want him to find them, and then guilt Sherlock into letting him have them anyway. Or distract him with sex. Either one. Depends on John's mood.

He drops the beans into his cart, and then turns to walk away. The alpha grabs his arm in an attempt to stop him from leaving. And what do you know? It didn't even take two minutes. John thinks the alpha might be wearing shoulder pads to make himself look broader. He was surprisingly light and easy to knock over and flip onto his stomach.

"Do you go around touching all the people you find attractive without permission? Or just the pregnant omegas who don't have an alpha within touching distance and seem like easy prey?" John asks conversationally, twisting the man's arms up higher when he grunts and refuses to answer. "Well?"

The alpha is stubborn and refuses to answer. It really would be too much of a bother to break his arms. Probably. 

"John," a familiar voice calls out. John winces, releasing the alpha and letting the fall to the floor. On his face. He wonders absently if he broke the alpha's nose. 

"Greg," John greets, turning to face the beta. He pushes his cart towards the detective inspector, stepping casually around the by-now-forgotten alpha.

"Was he bothering you?" Greg asks, frowning. "You know you just have to ignore the tossers. The stress can't be good for the baby. And we all have to suffer when Sherlock gets stroppy about you taking on too much."

John sighs. "It's my body. I know what's good and no good for the baby. And I'm not taking on too much. Sherlock thinks carrying anything heavier than the milk is 'too much.'"

Greg chuckles. "I know he's being an overprotective tosser, but the first pregnancy is always the most nerve inducing," he assures. "He'll be calmer for the next one. And it probably doesn't help that you're more self-sufficient than society would have alphas believe omegas should be during pregnancy." 

"What next one?" John snorts. "I think we're going to be one and done. Sherlock is like a child himself. Two would be like three."

John goes to pay, and the chip and pin machine cooperates. For once. John's getting better with technology, obviously.

It has nothing to do with John letting Greg scan and bag the groceries (and then pay with Sherlock's credit card) when the beta gets anxious about John lifting too much. Sometimes an omega just has to let the alphas and betas around him think that they are useful for something.


End file.
